


In Her Veins

by anythingbutblue



Category: American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutblue/pseuds/anythingbutblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were times when Fiona thought she wanted to have a daughter.</p><p>There were times when she didn't know what she'd been thinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Her Veins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [r_lee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_lee/gifts).



"Because _you_ are superior."

A laugh rippled out of her, slow and heavy as molasses, thick with a night's worth -- maybe two -- of whiskey. "No, darling, that's not quite what I said."

When she lowered over his lap, the hem of her skirt inched up her thighs. His hands followed. "Then what was it?"

Obliging, she leaned forward until her hair swept his shoulders, red lips positioned at the shell of his ear. "I'm the _Supreme_."

He chuckled in response. "You sure are."

***

Myrtle Snow's face was pinched with the effort of reluctant courtesy.

Fiona put her bags down on the floor. "What," she asked, enjoying the headmistress's expression, "no hug? No parade of sharply-dressed young witches eager for approval? This isn't exactly the welcome I expected."

"Since you are not the Supreme _we_ expected, my dear, I believe all things are equal." Years of absence may have softened the edges of the outright hatred Myrtle felt for her, but it was still very present. Never before had the words 'my dear' dripped with such heartfelt disdain. "I see that once again you've come prepared for an extended stay."

The smile on Fiona's face made no apologies. "I like to revisit my roots from time to time."

"How charming," Myrtle commented, clearly finding it anything but. "I'm sure Spalding will be happy to take your luggage to one of our free guest rooms. As our Supreme, you are most welcome. However, as Headmistress, I ask that you stay out of our way. This is a school and it will continue to operate as such whether you are here or not.

Fiona felt a smirk curve her lips. "Oh, I'd just _hate_ to interrupt the natural order of things."

***

The clock read 11:48. The girls weren't all asleep, of course -- the prescribed bedtime for its students always seems more like a suggestion than a rule -- but they were all ready for sleep and inside their rooms. Fiona swirled the scotch in her glass, two small ice cubes clinking gently, and sighed at the fireplace. "I can practically feel your distaste from here, Myrtle. Why don't you come on into the room and say what's on your mind?" She raised her glass, a half-hearted lure. "There's even scotch. That'll loosen your tongue."

She knew just how much her old rival would appreciate that choice phrase.

Stiffly, Myrtle did as asked of her, entering the room with all the presence of royalty. "As you might expect, I heard about the ice cream truck."

"Ah," Fiona laughed against the rim of her glass with such fond nostalgia that anyone would believe the incident happened during her childhood and not a few hours earlier. "That."

Myrtle frowned, the loudest silence ever heard.

"Don't blame me. I saw the accident happening. I simply made sure the truck toppled into our front gate rather than incoming traffic. It seemed only fair to take some ice cream off his hands before it all melted, but the driver was so shaken up, bless his heart, that I even paid for the ice cream." She shrugs as though helpless, knowing very well that she's the polar opposite. "He had maple walnut _and_ butter pecan." She rolled her eyes appreciatively. "Can you believe?"

"Unfortunately."

"Spare me the lecture this time, will you? It gets so tedious."

To Fiona's surprise, the other woman quietly settled into the nearest chair. For a split second, despite every instinct in her body, she dared to hope she could get away without another word said.

"It's been two weeks, Fiona. I feel forced to admit that despite this afternoon's... _excitement_ and the way you commandeered last Wednesday's potioncraft--"

Fiona sighed again. "It's always the most boring."

"Even if that's true your special assistance wasn't required."

"There was a practical use for everything I showed them."

"Fiona," Myrtle interrupted in a tone as dry as sun-bleached sand, "you brewed a five-minute truth serum, made a tattoo removal salve, and concocted a sexual lubricant that would gradually turn your partner's skin blue for, unless I'm mistaken, the better part of a week."

"As I said, a practical use for everything. Practical doesn't _always_ have to mean boring." She helped herself to a swallow of her scotch. "As a bonus, nothing I showed them is dangerous to their health. At least not on its own."

Amusement dared to twitch Myrtle's lips, but she pushed that urge away and didn't let up. "You'll forgive me if I don't admire your restraint."

"I doubt we have the kind of relationship that lends itself to forgiveness."

"On that we can agree." Myrtle rose to her feet once more and took a step toward the stairs. "I know you've always appreciated a free ride," she adds with just a dash of regal disdain, "but if you're going to continue living here I may need to adjust the school's budget and would appreciate being informed. We cannot bow to your every whim, Supreme or not."

Fiona tensed in spite of herself.

Faced with silence, Myrtle straightened her shoulders and started to leave the room.

"You should know I'm going to have a baby."

***

Babies were funny things. Helpless, useless, not even all that pretty at first: head a little misshapen, skin splotchy, eyes that don't really want to open. When Fiona's daughter was put into her arms for the first time it just seemed like a strange dream.

"She's beautiful."

Myrtle, of all people, Fiona thought, dressed to the nines and cooing at a baby; she'd have laughed if she felt like she had the energy to. "I'm glad _someone_ thinks so."

"You don't think this child is one of the most beautiful creatures you've ever laid eyes on?"

"Well." Fiona's shoulders almost shrugged. "Tiny ears, tiny feet, tiny fingernails, button nose: it's all very cute, of course, but she could use another month to ripen."

"Nonsense," Myrtle declared authoritatively with a shake of her hair. "She's absolutely delightful. What have you decided to name her?"

"Cordelia." Fiona smiled down at her baby girl, clicking her tongue at that little face. "That's you, honey, you hear that? Cordelia Elizabeth Goode."

"A pretty name. Was your mother a Cordelia?"

"No, it was my aunt's name."

"You were close?"

Fiona let out a laugh loud and abrupt enough to make the baby's face scrunch up unhappily. "Oh, I hated her." Grinning, she looked down at the newest Cordelia again. "But she had _such_ a gorgeous name." 

***

"Cordelia, honey, don't be shy."

The toddler buried her face in her mother's knees, clinging, her head of blonde curls facing away from the black-clad strangers in front of her.

" _Cordelia_ ," Fiona hissed, but her daughter's hold on her legs barely loosened.

"She's so cute!" the tallest student exclaimed. What was her name again, Fiona thought. Vera? Veronica? She was sure it was one of those. The girl had been a lot shorter last time.

"Sharp as a tack and pretty as a picture," Fiona agreed, taking the opportunity to extract herself from Cordelia's arms. "Shy, but--" She gestured around the room. "We do have a certain aesthetic."

For once Myrtle had informed the girls of their Supreme's arrival, encouraging them to dress formally and planning a large dinner for the whole group. It was the biggest fuss she'd ever made over one of Fiona's visits before, and Fiona had a feeling that even though little Cordelia was far too young to appreciate any of it she was the true guest of honor, daughter of the Supreme.

***

Removing her scarf, Myrtle noted the familiar luggage by the door. It was hardly a surprise. Fiona came and went like a stray cat, and having a child hadn't changed that. Any desire to nest had past.

As Fiona's heels _clickclickclick_ ed down the stairs Myrtle barely looked up. "I suppose we can expect you again in nine to eighteen months."

Smoke unfurled from the tail end of Fiona's cigarette. "Why, Myrtle, do I detect a note of bitterness?"

"I hardly think it'd take a Supreme to divine that."

Walking toward the door, Fiona grabbed her own coat.

"She could stay, if that's what you wanted."

Fiona let out the most unladylike snort possible. "You'd love that, wouldn't you?," she muttered, sticking the cigarette between her lips while she slipped her arms into her coat sleeves. "An admission of defeat." Once her coat was on, she squared her shoulders. "Yes, her ceaseless _why_ s drive me crazy. Her total helplessness is a pain in my ass. Motherhood is, without a doubt, one of the dumbest decisions I've made. Are you happy?" 

"I did offer to let you stay here after she was born," Myrtle couldn't help pointing out. "Against my better judgment, no less."

"But I," Fiona replied, plucking the cigarette from her mouth, "didn't need your charity. Then or now."

Buttoning her coat, Fiona had the distinct impression of Myrtle rolling her eyes as she turned away.

***

One way Fiona could always mesmerize a fussy Cordelia involved making the flame on a candle rise to the length of a smoking orange ribbon and slowly fall, flickering, to the wick. Cordelia could be counted on to climb into Fiona's lap, big watchful eyes on the flame, and sweetly tuck her head under her mother's chin, leaning.

Sometimes Fiona would hum to her, anything from Ella Fitzgerald to Elvis (they shared a hometown, after all) to The Beatles. Sometimes Cordelia, tired and wrapped snugly in the moment, would hum tunelessly along. Sometimes she'd ask for a story. Sometimes they'd just sit there, mother's fingers combing through her daughter's hair, and briefly Fiona would think that she could pull this shit off after all.

***

The whiskey had a delicious burn all the way down Fiona's throat. Almost as good was the wolfish look the bartender kept giving her. Completely unprofessional, of course. The fact that he was professional enough to keep his drink orders straight but not enough to keep his eyes from drinking her in was appealing, though.

She looked good, she knew: lips the perfect sly shade of red, hair brushed out like feathered gold, a slinky black dress that could make anyone feel irresistible and a matching pair of heels that could make anyone feel _invincible_. If eyes weren't drawn to her she'd have to think the world had gone mad.

The last call prompted her to ever-so-casually slip her pocketbook out of her coat and place it on the bar, fishing out her credit card.

"Nice sticker," the bartender commented, grinning widely.

"Excuse me?"

He pointed to a small metallic pink butterfly sticker on the side of her pocketbook.

"Oh. It is nice," she said, a shade away from dismissive. "If you like butterflies."

"You got kids?"

"No." It was a question she hadn't gotten before. She wasn't sure she liked it. "Not tonight."

***

She'd done a little traveling before Cordelia was born, most of it domestic, but she should've done more. She should've gotten it all out of her system. She should've visited the Pyramids (a coven's work, she was convinced), tasted wine in Italian vineyards, soaked up sun on Caribbean beaches, searched for fairy rings in Ireland's darkest forests. 

She wanted a lipstick named after her. She wanted to inspire a poet. She wanted to go to a concert and _know_ that the last song was all about her. She wanted to drink too much and dance around Stonehenge. She wanted to swim with sharks and know she was the bigger threat.

With powers like hers she'd always had a head start in life, and she'd nearly thrown it away for the sake of motherhood.

Motherhood. It was a hell of a joke.

On Cordelia's third birthday she threw a party -- she even invited Myrtle and her girls -- and the next day she hired a live-in nanny.

***

 _Mommy_ was written across the top of the page in the large and uneven red-crayoned lettering of a small child. There was a lopsided heart on either side, but underneath was the smaller and neater handwriting of Delia's nanny.

 _Ms. Goode_ , it read, _I hope your mother's health is improving. Cordelia started school last week and likes it so far. Her teacher loves her, of course, and when I drop her off in the mornings I see her talking and playing with the other children in her class. She asks about you a lot, but she is adjusting well to school!_

_I paid the electric bill out of pocket last week because we haven't received your check yet. If you could reimburse me in the next one I would really appreciate it._

_Please give my best wishes to your family. Cordelia would LOVE to hear from you soon._

Fiona read the letter over room service on the ninth floor of New York City's Waldorf Astoria. She had been to her mother's funeral years ago, before Cordelia was even born. June Goode died in a nasty car accident right outside Natchez, Louisiana, on her way home from an Easter dinner with extended family, and it had been a surprise when the news reached Miss Robichaux's.

Mary, the nanny, didn't know know any of that, but it would always be easy to help her overlook such inconvenient details.

***

Call it sentimentality, call it stubborn pride: Fiona had promised herself she'd always be home for Christmas.

It was the easiest time to be a mom, she thought. She arrived with her arms full of packages: a thank-you bonus for Mary, multiple gift-wrapped packages for little Delia. She swept through like a tornado sometimes, even she could admit, making a grand entrance and spoiling her daughter and enjoying a highlight reel of what she'd missed before leaving again. Sometimes she stayed through New Year's, letting Cordelia drink sparkling cider out of plastic wine glasses until the little girl fell asleep on the couch, but sometimes that last night of the year, the countdown and drinking and stringless midnight kiss, had an allure too strong for her not to want to make it her own.

Fiona wasn't in the habit of taking men home. Maybe she didn't want to hang out there often, but it was like sacred ground, a private club. Invitation-only, and invitations were rarely passed out.

She _was_ in the habit of leaving beds in the still-dark hours of the morning, like the light of dawn could taint the experience. There were exceptions, though rare, and her relationships always seemed to expire after about six months or so. Any longer and they started to wear on her. Look at what she'd let happen when she hadn’t even cared for the guy; she shuddered to think of how careless she could get if she got serious about anyone.

Maybe it didn't really matter because her daughter was the greatest love of her life. Or maybe her daughter was actually the person she resented most. She knew she was a better mother than her own had been, if only through absence. It was complicated -- maybe even ridiculous -- but it was what she could offer.

***

"What?" Fiona croaked into the phone.

The clock's red numbers announced 5:47, and she thought she might need to kill someone.

"Ms Goode, I'm so sorry." Mary's voice was unmistakable but uncharacteristically troubled. "There's been a fire."

In retrospect Fiona felt like she should've seen it coming.

Brown leaves swirled around her feet as she stepped out of the cab in front of the motel. She saw movement at a window on the second floor, then heard a door open. Cordelia poured out, running down the stairs to hug her tightly. She did her motherly duty, hugging her daughter back with as much reassurance as she could muster.

"It's okay, sweetheart," she promised, and the lie tasted sweet enough. "Accidents happen."

Cordelia said nothing, seven years old and a fire-starter. Fiona didn't know whether to let out a heavy sigh or puff up with parental pride.

Part of her wanted to roll around in jealousy. It'd taken _her_ powers twelve years to manifest.

"It's okay."

"No," Cordelia spoke up, voice wavering. Fiona could only remember a few times she'd voiced a disagreement before. "It's not okay."

***

Staying at Miss Robichaux's until the work on the house was done made sense -- she knew they'd never turn her away -- but it wasn't her favorite place on Earth. Myrtle's disapproval felt like a presence in every room, and she felt like she used to be better at ignoring that. Better at turning her nose up at it, defying it.

She felt a little like she was losing her touch.

Or maybe that was just because her daughter was apparently a magical prodigy. It must be why Supremes rarely seemed to have children. Maybe it was tempting fate, potentially bleeding yourself of your power by giving birth to another powerful witch.

The sweet smell of baking cookies leaked out of the kitchen, drawing her attention. She expected to see the maid at the counter with Cordelia, but as she entered she was surprised to hear Myrtle's laugh. The two of them stood there at the sink, Cordelia's smiling face smudged with flour, and Fiona felt something in her throat constrict.

"I hope you two have made enough for all of us," she said to announce herself.

"Of course we did," Myrtle assured her. "We could feed the entire neighborhood with the amount of batter we've made."

"They're chocolate chip and peanut butter!" Delia piped up, using wet fingertips to get the flour off her face.

"That sounds delicious." It didn't even require an act.

***

It'd been years and years since the last time she escaped Miss Robichaux's in the middle of the night. Across the hallway, behind a closed door, Cordelia slept.

Fiona stood at the door to her daughter's room, feeling an uncertainty that disgusted her, but after a moment she quietly opened the door a crack and peered into the darkness. Cordelia was indeed asleep, curled up on her side with one hand slipped under her pillow. Her deep breathing was barely audible in the stillness of the room.

Satisfied, Fiona closed the door and walked down the hallway, down the stairs, to the front door, where Spalding waited. He had her luggage sitting by the door, waiting to go. It was almost as if her bags looked forward to the change of scenery as much as she did.

"Thanks," she said quietly, almost an afterthought. It was the least she could do, she supposed, and she liked Spalding. He became eminently more likeable once he couldn't talk.

He nodded in acknowledgment, not even a hint of a smile on his lips, and if his eyes hadn't flickered toward the head of the stairs she never would've turned around.

Myrtle stood there, wearing a robe the color of royalty, looking down on her. How strange that the silent treatment could seem worse than all the things Myrtle could've said in that moment.

Fiona picked up her two bags. She couldn't keep up the silence, couldn't appear to be running off with her tail between her legs. "Checks will be in the mail."

"You don't need to bother."

"I also don't need permission." Spalding opened the door for her; all she had to do was walk through it.

***

"Surely you know it's a terrible idea."

Fiona sighed her exasperation into the receiver. "I don't care what kind of idea it is, Myrtle. Put my daughter on the line."

"Fiona," she went on, "you have spent your entire time as Supreme coming and going as you please with little regard for--"

"Is there a point to this?"

"-- the rest of us, particularly your own daughter. I'm certain she doesn't want to talk to you."

The thought was shocking. Fiona paused. "Why not?"

Myrtle made a small sound of disbelief. "That tends to happen when you mistreat children."

Blood rushed angrily to Fiona's face. "Put Cordelia on now."

"I have a theory, Fiona." Myrtle's voice somehow managed to sound infinitely patient while daring her to interrupt. "You see, I've spent the last six months observing your wonderful daughter, and I have yet to see the tiniest use of magic." 

"That--"

"Not the _tiniest_ use, which for any normal witch wouldn't be so surprising. For your daughter, offspring of the Supreme, the supposed culprit in your unfortunate house fire, it is perhaps a little more remarkable."

Fiona pressed her lips together.

"I can understand your suspicions. What happens when you ignore a child who wants your attention? They'll try harder to get it. But half a year later Cordelia hasn't started any fires, hasn't moved any objects. She certainly hasn't recited any incantations." Myrtle's hesitation was quick but audible. "The only thing that makes me suspect that the magic running through her veins is strong enough to manifest now in any way... is the fact that _she remembers_."

A chill shot through Fiona, a dismay that bolted through her skull and down her spine. "She remembers what?"

"She remembers being struck, Fiona. When you were questioning her about the fire."

"That's impossible. I made sure she'd forget. That incident should be wiped--"

"I'm quite aware of your powers," Myrtle acknowledged, but quickly went on, no-nonsense. "And that's one of the most significant reasons it wouldn't do any good to operate within the confines of the legal system to get you to stay away."

"It's not as if I meant to hurt her."

"I don't doubt that. When your brand of cruelty is premeditated there is always _something_ of substance in it for you."

"Myrtle," she interrupted, the name like poison from her lips, "if you don't think I would go back for the pleasure of extracting an apology from you, you are sadly mistaken." Had there ever been any love lost between them? She didn't remember any. "But it seems to me that we all have what we need right now."

"Do we?" There was a genuine note of curiosity in the question.

"Do me a favor, Myrtle. Spare me the heart-to-heart."

***

As the car pulled into the driveway, there she was. Little Cordelia: nearly ten years old, blonde hair almost waist-length, cheeks flushed from playing in the yard. Myrtle's influence was obvious in her pretty summer clothes: the outfit looked like it was from a top-dollar department store, no doubt tailored. In the moment that was the one good thing Fiona could acknowledge about the situation.

"Nothing." Once the car was neatly parked in its place, Myrtle pulled her keys out of the ignition.

Fiona's hand idled on the car door handle. "You're joking."

"If it's any consolation she's shown an interest in potions, and she seems to have a great memory for it."

"Potions?" Of all the talents she could possibly show. "So she has a good memory and likes mixing things together. She hasn't done anything else?"

"Don't be so disappointed. She's a little girl."

"She's _my_ little girl. My blood."

Myrtle's eye roll was a grand one. "Don't I know it." She opened her door. "You only have the weekend, Fiona: that was what we agreed to. Hurry and say hello. Children are, fortunately, much more forgiving than adults."


End file.
